


you're made of my rib or baby

by meios



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Crying, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:30:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8112817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meios/pseuds/meios
Summary: I didn't wanna hurt you, baby, but you're pretty when you cry.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of the song, [Pretty When You Cry by VAST](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=67Txladh_54/).

He is the fruit sprung from the loins of his fathers and yet he is no one’s son.

 

Back pressed to the mattress, he is pliant and rhythmic, spread out like graveyard flowers, pretty and deadly and all pale expanses of not-skin in this not-dream in this not-world, where the big hands on his limbs are doing nothing but pulling him apart, taking and taking and taking until there is no line separating the two of them. And he is pretty here, gasping on noises that do not come to fruition, choking on spittle and the tongue fucking into his mouth. He is manhandled effortlessly, the bed seeming to open up around him as he is made and molded and held.

 

 _Bruce_ spills from his red-bitten mouth, but Bruce is marking up his neck, finding any way to bruise unbruised skin, all broken blood vessels, a piece of fruit too ripe. Any broken flesh is soothed with the sins of Bruce’s tongue, and on the name, there is the distinct shudder and keen of recognition. Roadmap muscles are tense, too tense, even as he scratches down Bruce’s biceps, even as he is folded in half with the ensuing thrusts.

 

Once, Bruce had called the two of them animals and he had laughed into his mouth in response, and they are so ugly now—there is a tightness in his chest, knocked up into the back of his throat, threatening to dribble out, spit-wet and alive.

 

There is wetness on his face and he is whispering _Bruce_ again.

 

The climax is sudden, that sensation of fullness, the pulsations inside him as the edge pulls itself into sight. Bruce’s hand is on him and he is sobbing, sensitivity bordering on the knife’s edge of painful, and even as his world goes white and then Technicolor, Bruce is still littering marks onto his skin, _Jason_ like a mantra on his tongue, like forgiveness is a language that they both speak.

 

He twitches, his body no longer controlled—his limbs come alive and they latch back onto Bruce before he pulls away, dirty and debauched, anchoring him to this moment, this bedroom, this mattress that threatens to pull him inside. He is still crying. For what, he does not know.

 

And Bruce will kiss every tear like a moth to the flame, despite the terror of the rushing heat, and he is pressed there, and Jason chokes on his sobs, shatter like porcelain dolls and China cabinets and flickering crystalline stars like the ones in Bruce’s eyes and Jason tugs too tightly on Bruce’s hair and Bruce kisses him too hard, but they will pretend to be made of little less than sin and bone.


End file.
